Imagine
by RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow
Summary: Barricade boy imagines. If you leave a request in the reviews I may do one for you! Meant to be fun. Some are happy, some are sad. (chapter four fixed!)
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, I'm going to start this. Basically, if you want to have an imagine, comment the name you want to use (like you don't have to put your real name but it has to be an actual name) and I might write you one. For this I just used Psycho's French name, so...yeah. Beginning with Courfeyrac. Please be ****specific**** if you request one, i.e. the name you want to use, the barricade boy, other ships to include, happy or sad, etc. Thanks! I hope you like this idea.**

* * *

Courfeyrac smiles and sweeps his hat off his head for a bow. "Greetings, Mademoiselle," he says playfully. You laugh in return, lightly punching the boy in the shoulder.

"Always the gentleman, then! Very nice to meet you, Monsieur de Courfeyrac."

"Courfeyrac. Just Courfeyrac. I detest the particle."

You smile, because you like people with such an easygoing attitude.

"See you around then, Just Courfeyrac."

"Yes, dinner! Dinner at a fancy restaurant, with little candles! C'mon?" he asks you, with those puppy eyes that you can never seem to resist.

"So...a date, you mean."

"Call it what you want," he says evasively, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows. "Whatever it is, there shall be food and candles. And maybe flowers."

Laughing, you promise to meet him Friday at the Pour l'Amour des Crêpes, a small crêperie outside the city outskirts.

-many, many dates later-

It's a green dress, simple, and you know he'll love it. Well, he says he loves anything you wear, but green is his favorite color, and this dress...shows you off a bit. Smiling, you drive to the place. When you get to the restaurant he's sitting there, but at once you can tell that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

"...Courfeyrac?"

He smiles sadly at you. "Dinner's on me. Order whatever you want. Order a filet mignon! Have fun..."

"What's wrong. Tell me."

He orders bread.

Slowly, in an almost emotionless (emotionless! Courfeyrac! You know that something is wrong right away.) voice, he says, "the doctor said one month."

You immediately think of the impossible, of the worst. "One month...to what?" you ask, fearing the answer more than anything you've ever feared before.

"To live." The words come out as a whisper, barely heard over the music they're playing in the background.

No. No. Not Courfeyrac, the brightest spark you know, the man you...you love. Not him. Anyone but him.

You eat the rest of your dinner in silence, but you don't taste a bit.

"Damn aggressive cancer!" you sob, still unable to really believe he's almost gone. That this time next week, he might not be there.

He looks at you with eyes that hold barely a trace of the jovial tone they once had. "Marie..."

"Yes?" you choke.

"Marie, I've never been happier in my life than when I was with you. Without you my life was incomplete and empty. Marie..."

He reaches a trembling hand into his coat pocket and pulls out a ring. It's simple, a gold band with a mounted diamond. Inside the band is engraved your name. Your breath catches and tears spill down your face.

"Yes, yes yes yes."

You cover his face in kisses, tears of happiness that he loved you as much as he loved you, and tears of utter and complete despair because you know he always wanted but will never have a June wedding.

"Marie, I have and always will love you."

Those were the last words that he ever said.

You visit his grave every day. It's simple, not too elaborate. You put flowers there, and such, but it doesn't ease the pain that jabs like a knife in your heart.

Because Courfeyrac wasn't just another charming, laughing boy that struck your fancy. He was, and would always be, so much more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Barricade-era**,** with Feuilly, for Darci the Thespian. I already had an idea with Feuilly, that's why hers is first...She requested "as sad as you can possibly make it", so here. I tried to make it very, very sad, but happy at first. So you don't have to read all the way through. Please comment? :)**

**-Marseillaise**

* * *

"Christine! Come on, we haven't all day!"

You shrug and mumble that it's your birthday and you should be allowed to do what you want. You're seventeen, after all.

Your mother looks at you sharply and you sigh and rush out the door.

A fan. That's what you want. Even though your family isn't dirt-poor, you aren't rich, but one of the few in between. Your parents said you could have one gift for your birthday, and even though it's stupid, you want a fan like you saw Madeline have. Madeline's parents are rich, and although you used to play together as children, it was clear that she could not play with a girl of so much lower social status, and became rather vain and snobby. Still, you wished you could be like Madeline, and have everything at your whim.

Walking to the little shop wearing your best green dress and trying very hard to look rich, you pass a girl on the street without even a nice dress, hardly more than rags even. You frown. It's your birthday, and you feel like you deserve to have all you can right now, but she really doesn't have anything. Your mother signals for you to hurry up.

Without thinking it through any more, you take off your shawl, the one you've had for barely a year and cost almost ten francs, and hand it to her. She smiles, grinning gap-toothily, and puts it on, twirling about.

"Merci, mam'zelle!" she says, curtsying clumsily.

You smile and hurry after your mother, who has reached the shop and has stuck her head out exasperatedly.

"Your shawl! What did you do with it, Christine?" she asks you.

Looking at the floor, even though you think you should be proud of what you've done, you mutter something about losing it.

"What?"

Looking up, "I gave it to a gamine. A girl who didn't even have what we do."

Your mother's expression softens. "That was a very kind thing to do, Christine. Now, a fan. Why don't you go pick one out? I'm sure that man could help you."

Said man wasn't tall or short, but rather average, with brownish red hair and a wiry build. He wore a dark olive cap. Coming over, he smiles warmly. "How can I help you?"

"A fan, please. Maybe a light pink one?"

He nods and shows you an array of pink fans. As you look at them, you can't help but notice that he is fairly attractive. You pick a fan and leave, but you still can't stop thinking about the young man who showed you the fans.

You need an excuse to go back, so you tell your mother the next day that you dislike the fan. Maybe you could go and return it?

Your mother sighs and concedes, and you say that she doesn't have to come if she doesn't want to.

"Be careful," she says, and you're off.

Rushing to the shop, you slow to a walk a few yards away and nervously bite your lip. Are you in love? You've never really felt so strongly about another boy or young man, and in such a wonderful way, so you assume so.

He's there again, and you shyly enter the shop.

"Hi, I'm Christine."

He smiles. "Mam'zelle," he nods.

You wait. Is he going to or is he not going to tell you his name? Nervously, you fidget. After a minute or two of awkward staring at the way his hair isn't quite cut evenly, but frames his face adorably, he says your name and you startle a bit. "Yes?"

Amusedly, he replies, "Mam'zelle Christine, may I inquire as to your reappearance?"

You fumble for words and come out with "call ce Mistine, I mean, call me Christine."

Nodding, he says, "Christine, then, why have you come again?"

You're positive your face must be brilliantly red, but you say, "I, um…wanted to exchange the fan for a different one?"

Cute little creases appear between his eyes. "Is there something wrong with it?"

Hurriedly, you shake your head. "No, nothing's wrong! I just…wanted a different one, I guess…"

He laughs, and you groan inwardly. He must think you an absolute idiot.

Coming back with an enormous selection of fans, he leans in and smiles. "Choose one, Christine."

You look at the fans, but your eyes keep getting drawn to his hands, roughened by his work but still nice to look at.

Without thinking, you reach out to touch the fans. Slyly, you run your fingers over his ever so softly as you feel the fans.

"Do they feel alright?" he asks with mock concern.

You nod hurriedly. "They feel amazing."

He laughs and then, more seriously, he comments, "I saw what you did for that girl yesterday. That was very kind of you. I used to be in her situation, and it would have been nice if someone had done that for me."

"What, give you a shawl?" The moment the words leave your mouth you want to take them back, but the man just smiles.

"No, show such kindness. I can tell you aren't rich yourself, no offense, and what you did was extremely generous. I'm Feuilly, by the way."

_Feuilly. What a pretty name…_

"Like leaf." Oh gosh. What _are_ you saying.

"Yes, like leaf, feuille. Not quite, though," he says, really laughing now. Gosh, he must think you're an idiot.

"Yes. Um. See you later?"

He smiles. "Will I?"

"Um…yes."

* * *

The next day, you realize you can't pull the whole I-need-another-fan thing again, so you try and think of something else. Gritting your teeth, you lie, saying you're going out to the gardens and that you'll be back in an hour or so.

You hurry to the shop to discover another girl picking out a fan, so you slip inside and sit by the door on the window-seat.

She leaves in a few minutes after buying a fan, and Feuilly turns to you.

"Hello again, mam'zelle Christine!"

"Really. It's Christine."

"Okay. So, why have you come? More fan troubles?"

You frown, because you haven't thought of this. "Um, no…I just wanted to um, see you?" Your voice lilts up in a question before you can stop it.

He smiles and bows. "Lovely."

You smile playfully and get up your courage. "Um…Feuilly?"

"Yes?"

"Do you, you know, want to…do something?"

"Excuse me?"

You blush. "I mean, go…oh I don't know! Go walk in the gardens! Something fun!"

"I can stop working until nine o'clock tonight, that's pretty late…"

"In the morning? Or no, on Saturday!"

"That will work."

* * *

Three days later, on Saturday, you go to the gardens and meet him.

* * *

Three Saturdays and three long garden walks later, you realize just how much you love him.

* * *

Three months later, you take him to your house and show him off to your parents. They approve, your mother smiling happily and commenting that he's handsome and nice, and that you've done well. You blush a little at this, but it makes you extremely happy.

* * *

Nine months after that, you and Feuilly are head-over-heels for each other, and you know all about the revolution he's helping to plan. You don't necessarily agree with it, because you don't like bloodshed, but it seems like it's a good thing.

* * *

On June first, you leave for Arras, and he tells you that when you get back, he has a surprise. He says it so happily that you think you know what it is.

You smile happily as you arrive back in Paris, because although Arras is lovely, nothing is the same as Paris. And not only that, but Feuilly is in Paris.

A blush creeps up your face at the thought of the soft-worded artisan. You can't believe you met Feuilly almost a year ago, while looking for a fan.

Of course, you knew that he was also in his group for the rights of the people, but he had been so positive that the people would rise, and that he would survive, that you had no doubt he would. In fact, you never even entertained the thought.

A letter is waiting for you, dated June fourth.

"Dear Christine,

Lamarque has died, and this might not mean a lot to you, but our revolution will happen tomorrow. If something happens to me, not that I am planning on it, please know that I loved you. Enjoy Arras for me.

Love Feuilly, your leaf"

You smile at the letter and fold it up. Well, as far as you know he survived, so it's okay.

Rushing out the door, you make your way through Paris to his small flat. On the way, you pass by Rue de la Chanvrèrie, where the remains of a barricade lie, and you wonder if Feuilly was on it.

Frowning, you hurry past it and the pile of bodies.

* * *

The door pushes open, and the bed hasn't been slept in. You stand in the familiar room and a horrible thought occurs to you.

Blindly, you rush back to the barricade ruins and up to the pile of corpses. They smell, but that's not what you notice.

Instead, all you see is a body, facedown, with light orange-brown hair matted with blood, and a scar on one ear that you remember all too well.

It's Feuilly.

Gasping, hyperventilating, still not sure of your own eyes, you blink again and again, and soon tears are streaming down your face and you're sobbing.

You take his hand and kiss the cold flesh. And to think, you had thought he was going to propose to you today. You can't stop shaking, looking at his very dead body.

Your mother comes an hour later to find you still crying your eyes out, and she sits down next to you. You can't bear to look away from the body that once spoke such cheerful words and loved to walk in the gardens.

Your mother leads you away, because it's time for dinner, and she's crying too. Not what you're doing, which is horrible, loud choking noises, but silent tears coursing down her face.

* * *

You go back the next day, but you don't see the bodies. Frantically, you bang on the door of a shop on the street. The plump old lady tells you that they were taken away, presumably to be buried, though she doesn't know where.

* * *

You slump on your bed, miserable and defeated. You can't even visit his grave.

* * *

Almost a week later, a man shows up at the door with a woman, presumably his wife or mistress.

"Yes?"

"I'm Marius, and this is my wife Cosette. I fought at the barricade with Feuilly…he mentioned you, you know. He really loved you."

You can't take it anymore. Thickly, you thank the young man and his wife.

You doubt you'll ever stop crying.

* * *

**Well, that was depressing...a happy one is next, don't worry! Please comment thoughts, and ideas! Thanks!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello! I know I should be working on other stories, and I apologize, but here's this! Enjoy- a happy one at last! **

* * *

You often wonder at the strange young man who plays piano. He has dark curls and more often than not needs a shave, and seems in an eternal state of melancholy. He looks at alcohol as if it's something that killed part of him, but also longingly. Whe his fingers dance accross the ivory keys, ghosts of his past seem to cloud on his face.

. He looks at alcohol as if it's something that killed part of him, but also longingly. Whe his fingers dance accross the ivory keys, ghosts of his past seem to cloud on his face.

Your parents own a large estate, and when they have a dinner party, or a guest, or something of the like (which is frequent), they hire the mysterious "R" to play the grand piano.

He's French originally, which makes it all the more intreiguing, because you know that recently there was an uprising in Paris. He refuses to talk about it, though, but in a way that made you wonder.

Monsieur de Vrai, your French tutor, is strict and you don't particularly like him, so you wish that "Capital R" (whatever that's supposed to stand for, you fancy it's René) would teach you.

The first time you talked to him you tried your broken French, but after the first couple of sentences it fell apart at the flurry of words he said. "Je...je ne parle pas le français, j'ai peur." (I don't speak French, I'm afraid.)

He nodded. "My apologies," he said in the sad tone he always used, "I thought you did."

You smile faintly and walk away, "God Save the King" playing forlornly. Never did you think such a song could be played like that, but he does.

It actually frustrates you, because he won't say /anything/ about himself, where he was from, if he had a lover, not evem his real name."

"Mr...Capital R?"

"Say it in French," he replies without turning around.

"Monsieur...Grand R? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Grand R...grand aire...my name is Grantaire, if you were wondering. It's a pun." And then, "Enjolras...il aimé toujours des jeu de mots..." (Enjolras...he always loved plays on words...)

Trying to decipher the French, you ask, "ange elle? Angel girl?" Was he alluding to his past?

"Oui...Enjolras était comme un ange...(yes, Enjolras was like an angel...)," he said offhandedly. "Sorry, I'm losing myself. I'm called Grantaire." He turns abruptly back to the piano, and you get the sense that your conversation is most certianly over.

Ange elle... who was she...

XXX

One night, you decide to be Bad Bridgette. Bad Bridgette does what she wants, and what she wants is to know where Grantaire lives.

Sneaking out of your room, you silently follow the pianist as he walks through the nice part of Leeds into the poorer district. The very much poorer district.

There, you watch as he unlocks a tiny flat and enters. The number is 89C, you remember, on Potter Street.

Shivering in the chill spring air, you begin the walk back to your estate. Somehow the night seems much more dangerous when you aren't following a strong young man.

It isn't long before you're completely and utterly lost. For all you know, the next turn could lead to the East end, but you don't want to try your luck. Generally, sixteen-year-old girls don't last long in the West end of Leeds, you think. It really is cold for the beginning of April, and well past midnight. What a wonderful idea this was.

Shivering, you turn around the corner and see a two-story house with a window lit. An old woman sits there, knitting by candlelight. You wonder what she's doing up so late, but on second thought, are just really, really glad that someone who could possibly show you your way out is there.

You walk up to the door and knock, wrapping your cloak tighter. All you're wearing is a light green frock over your underclothes, and a dark blue cloak that is really more for show than actual warmth.

After a minute or so, you've about given up when the door opens and the old woman opens it. She actually isn't that old, just…worn, if that's the word. She looks at you in surprise, and then says, "miss?"

You smile awkwardly. "Um, hi. I live in the East end, and I'm rather lost," you confess sheepishly.

"I can see that. Miss, what are you doing?"

You debate what to say, and decide that the truth is definitely not the way to go. Saying that you followed your parents' cute hired pianist home? No. "I…I got lost. I couldn't sleep and decided to take a walk."

She purses her lips, obviously not believing you, but you stick out your chin. "Really. And," you say in a nicer tone, "if you wouldn't mind…how can I get back to the East end?"

The woman points down a street. "That way. All the way to the East end."

You thank her profusely, and regret that you don't have any money on you. Hurriedly, you walk down the street to the East end, where you know your way, and back, up the trellis for the beans, and through your window, breathing heavily.

You strip off your clothes, which are a bit dirty from climbing up the trellis, and put on a nightgown. As you crawl into bed, the clock chimes for three o'clock, and you groan. Getting up will not be fun at all.

XXX

The next morning, you feel sick. Must've gotten a cold from last night's excursion, but it works in your favor and you get to sleep in. As you wake up, you can't stop thinking about Grantaire, and wondering about his past.

You decide to sneak out again, confident you can find your way home.

That evening, you play worse than you really are, because you honestly don't feel that bad, it's nothing, and you want to get planning.

In fact, you feign feeling horrible so well that Mother and Father excuse you from dinner with Aunt Georgia, and you lock yourself inside your room. Now. Climbing out using the trellis is easy enough, and you can follow Grantaire home again. After that…what to do. Spy through his window? That seems a bit much, even for you. After all, it is quite an invasion of privacy to look through someone's window. You give up planning and decide to go with whatever seems like the best idea at the moment.

Still, it's only five o'clock and he won't be going home until eleven or so, so you decide to get some rest. Instead of muffling your clock like you normally do, you set it closer to your bed, so that it wakes you up every hour.

At ten, you muffle the clock and slip out of bed. You pick out a dark blue dress this time, a woolen one, because it's cold outside, and dark blue blends well with the night.

You follow him noiselessly, wearing soft shoes, and then awkwardly slip back home. The entire trip takes no more than an hour and a half, two at the most.

XXX

You feign illness again the next day, but your mother doesn't let you skip your French and needlework. Annoying, but at least you have more freedom. You express that you would like your meals in your room so that you can rest, which your mother agrees to. A pang of guilt strikes at all the lies and things, but it's washed away quickly.

That night, Grantaire wasn't called over, and you sleep as usual.

XXX

However, for the next week, every time he comes over to play you follow him home. In fact, you're pretty confident that you could find his flat without him leading you.

After a week has gone by, you stop feigning illness and your schedule resumes. You sit downstairs in the grand foyer, listening to the piano play and imagining the melancholy young man that sits there.

Finally, you walk up to the piano.

"Why were you following me?"

The question catches you off guard, and you reply, "I don't know, I-"

"Then you were following me?"

You look down. "Yes."

He looks up at you. "I don't understand why you would want to."

You blush furiously, glad that he has already returned to looking at the piano music. "I don't know…I suppose I fancied an adventure?"

He stops playing. "An adventure," he says hardly. "Do you want me to tell you a story, Miss?"

You're taken aback, but you nod. Grantaire sighs. After calling Smith, a servant, to play what little he can on the piano, he turns to you.

"In France, in the year 1828, a group of young men decided to change the face of their country drastically. They went by Les Amis de l'Abaissé, or Les Amis de l'ABC. A pun, you see. They were schoolboys, students and the like, and they were determined beyond compare. All except one, who was convinced they would fail and only showed up for the wine and the company, and to be amazed at the belief and radiance of the leader. A few of them fought in the July insurrection of 1830, which you may remember, but none died. Then, just recently, they decided it was their turn to start an uprising, one that would succeed. The skeptic followed them, because he was enthralled and rejuvenated by the light cast by their leader, but he didn't believe it to work. He was drunk, and the leader scathingly told him to sleep it off, not to disgrace their barricade. That when they were finished with their great adventure to change France, he could wake up to a new world and be drunk and unhappy there. The skeptic was hurt, but went upstairs to a back room and fell asleep.

"When he woke up, the first thing he saw was his idol, the leader, dead on the ground not five feet from him. He cried, and tried to drink himself to death, but then thought better of it. He reclaimed his skill at the piano, and moved to England, or more specifically, to Leeds. There, a rich family had him play piano often, and he never touched alcohol again, because it had taken away from him his death, but also his life."

You look at him in shock. After going through all that…

But you're curious. "What was the leader's name?" you can't help asking.

"Enjolras." He turns back to the piano, and Smith leaves looking relieved. "Miss, don't go for adventures. They don't always have happy endings."

You don't know what to do, so impulsively, you hug the man. He is muscular, and stiffens for a second. Awkwardly, he relaxes.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper. "I wish I could make it better."

He looks at you, and you see the despair in his eyes and truly know why now. "There was a piano on our barricade," he says dully. "Smashed and broken, just like me. Somehow, someday, I wish to put the pieces back together, and music helps, you know? But you can still see the cracks, even with glue."

"I…don't think you're worthless."

He looks at you, smiling sadly. "Is that so."

"Yes."

XXX

He doesn't play again for almost a week, and when he does, you sit by the piano bench smiling almost the entire night. As the days pass, this is how you spend almost every evening.

One night, he smiles back, quickly. You blush, wishing he could somehow be that man, but he's almost twenty five and you're not quite seventeen. So not a big deal, but he was barely more than a servant, he lived in the West End for goodness sakes.

XXX

But even if he isn't Mr. Right, or Monsieur Droit, whichever, you can tell you've helped him, you and music. You become great friends, truly.

When he plays, he plays with more vigor and happiness, and the broken pieces in his eyes seem to knit back together.

He plays for you the French National Anthem, quietly, of course, and in his own house. Because of course you still slip out without your parents knowing. His piano is smaller and older and more beaten up, but it still works.

And you learn French. Hours after dark, after listening to the piano play, you learn of amour and vin and all the wonderful French things, but also émeute and guerre, riot and war. And mourir, death, but of vivre, life.

Everything seems perfect.

XXX

Two years later, you really have found Mr. Right in John Downton, the boy from school. Grantaire plays at your wedding.

Everything _is _perfect, at last.

* * *

**I hope you liked it! Review, please?**

**-Marseillaise xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**-Marseillaise**

* * *

You smile and scamper off to the café Musain, where they always gather and you always sit and watch. Well, mainly you watch Enjolras, but he's twelve years older than you and doesn't date. Smiling happily, you sit next to Jehan.

Enjolras goes on and on about how we can learn from the mistakes of the Terror today, and none of it quite makes sense, but it sounds very important and you nod wisely.

After the meeting is over, you run back outside and go off to play with Joi, another street girl. Laughing, you chase each other around. Then, she smiles and says, "c'mere, I have somthin' to show ya."

Following the slightly older gamine, you wonder what it is that could be so exciting. After walking a while, she shows you a place- not a dump, per say, but where the baker throws out stale and moldy bread. It's protected by a fence, and hard to get to, but there's a tiny hole just big enough for you to squeeze through.

"I thought maybe ya could squeeze through the hole, Annette, an' get us some of the bread."

Nodding, you slip through it, barely fitting, and end up inside. It's a pigsty, you realize, but the pigs can't fit through the hole. The pile of bread is to your left and, snatching some, you throw it back out and squeeze through again.

Joi smiles. "Knew ya could do it. Whaddya say we share it, this feast?"

You nod excitedly and tear into the bread. As you do so, you notice two students walking past in a heated debate, not minding what was going on around them. One of them was Enjolras, the other…Combeferre? Courfeyrac? Combefeyrac? Something like that. Suddenly, Enjolras tripped on an uneven paving-stone, falling flat on his face quite near you. You rush over and peer at him.

The other student helps him up, and asks if he's alright, not minding you at all. Enjolras replies that he is fine, though you notice he favors his left ankle as he stands.

"M'sieur?" you ask.

He looks down at you. "Call me citoyen. All are equal under the Republic."

"Not under the King."

He frowns. "We strive to change that. Anyway, yes?"

You summon up your courage. "If I may ask, what 'xactly were ya talkin' 'bout in the café? Seemed like some sorta revolt type deal. There was a revolt in '30, I was there. That's how Luc died. If ya goin' to be makin' another one, jus' keep in mind we don't always fare well." Idiot! Don't contradict him. You mentally slap yourself.

He nods. "I know. And I hope that the poor and depraved will aid us this time. What is your name?"

"Annette, but you can call me…Anne." Really. What were you doing. No one called you _Anne._

"Anne. Would you care to join me at my meetings? It would be very…interesting to have a point of view such as your own." He looked at you as if you were his little sister, which you suppose is better than him _hating_ you, but still…

"Of course, m'sieur! I'd be glad t' join ya." Bobbing in an awkward curtsy, you scurry off before you say something stupid again.

You hear running feet, and he catches up with you. Grabbing your arm, he looks at you, friendly, and says, "do you have a place to sleep?"

You shake your head. "No, but the gutter'll do fine. Always has."

He looked shocked and saddened that you slept on the gutter. "You shall come home with Combeferre and me. I can sleep on the couch."

You gape at him. Nodding weakly, you follow him and the other one- _Combeferre _- back to their flat.

XXX

It's quite roomy, you think, and you conk out almost immediately on the bed in one of the rooms. Your last sight is Enjolras smiling at you.

XXX

When you wake, at first you don't know where you are. Then, you remember the events of yesterday, and grin. Climbing out of the delightfully comfortable bed, you walk into the main room, where Enjolras and Combeferre are eating breakfast. Smiling, Enjolras offers you a chair and a baguette. You accept, staring at the beautiful revolutionary.

"You can stay here if you like, Anne. We have the room. Alternatively, if you would prefer, my friend Jean Prouvaire also has the room. It's less crowded at his house, as his parents gave him a large _maison_."

You bite your lip. "I-I'll stay here, if ya don' mind. I don' know yer m'sieur Prouvaire, y'see."

Enjolras nods. "Of course. Well, Combeferre and I must be off to university. Make yourself at home."

Smiling, you nod. Even if he will never love you, you know that you've finally found someone who you can count as family.

XXX

"Anne! What are you doing?" hisses Enjolras from inside the wine shop.

"I followed ya an' 'Ferre. Bit difficult, gettin' through the Guards, but I made it."

He frowns. "Please, Anne, get away from here. There's going to be a fight."

"I ain't scared. I've braved the 1830 uprisin'," you argue.

Enjolras sighs. "Fine. But be careful."

You nod. "O' course."

XXX

And even though you were one of the only survivors, they made an impact on your life. A big one.

XXX

You smile as the procession marches through the streets. "A new Republic!" you cry. Hundreds, thousands, have rallied. And this time? You won.


End file.
